


bloody, but unbowed

by icarxs



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dan has curly hair for most of this because I do what I want, Dan's Still Emo Even After Years Of Living In Constant Sunshine, F/F, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Phil's good with a sword but better with his hands wink wink no seriously he's a good inventor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 15:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarxs/pseuds/icarxs
Summary: "Uh," Dan said, "does anyone else feel that wave of encroaching terror, or -"Phil drew his sword. "You'd be surprised how often this happens," he said.





	bloody, but unbowed

**Author's Note:**

> I would just like to apologise, for everything.
> 
> title is from Invictus, by William Ernest Henley, because I'm a Basic Poetry Bitch.
> 
> ABOUT PJO
> 
> I've set this a few months after the end of Heroes of Olympus, but before the Apollo trilogy, and it's not going to follow that canon because frankly I've only just started the first one and I wanna write this now. So soz.
> 
> Also I don't know if this will ever be more than a two chapter thing because as you may know I cannot plot serious arcs to save my life! so!
> 
> I've skipped a lot of the *~explanation side of things because I assumed people who click this will know the basics of PJO, which is that half-bloods = children of the immortal Greek pantheon, they smell super good to monsters, it's dangerous to be one. That's about all you need to know tbh.
> 
> ABOUT EVERYTHING ELSE
> 
> I know this is niche. Trust me, I know. I just wanted to get it down.
> 
> love you guys

When Dan first woke, his mouth tasted of strawberries.

The ceiling above him was mottled white and yellow. It made his eyes ache, and when he raised his arm to rub at them, an instinctive movement, a sharp tugging in his forearm sent a shudder of pain down his spine. The room solidified around him: a hospital; he was hooked up to a machine that appeared to be dead and the surgical tape around the catheter plugged into his arm was peeling and dry. The walls were a pale yellow; there were no windows, and the air was stagnant and smelt like soil after rain, but twisted, reversed, unsettling. A lone chair sat by the large white door, which was ajar.

Dan shoved himself up onto his elbows and took stock. His head ached and there was a sharp pain in his chest. It hurt like all hell when he pulled the catheter from his arm, nothing like the movies made it seem, and he swore and his voice was loud and sharp in the earthy silence; he clamped his hand over the pathetic dribble of blood that followed and screwed his eyes shut, biting down hard on his lower lip. He’d never been good with pain – or hospitals, or needles. He couldn’t remember a thing about getting here – the last memory he had was his mom’s face. She was wide eyed and afraid in the front of his mind. The reason for her fear glimmered just out of reach, but it felt important.

He had no injuries that he could find; his limbs ached with inactivity. He found no grazes or bruises, except for the smudge where the catheter had been. His hands were the colour of snow, no tan to be seen; his veins gleamed blue in his wrists.

Getting from his bed to the door took Dan a long time; every muscle in his body was weak and unfamiliar, as though his bones had been replaced with jell-o – not that he’d ever used his muscles much anyway. He was glad that this strange, cell-like room wasn’t equipped with a mirror, because his hair was falling into his face in curls, brushing the nape of his neck. It hadn’t been cut in what seemed like months; pulling a curl out straight from his forehead he found it reached his chin, and on past; hair brushed his bare collarbone when he leant forward to catch his breath.

The air in the room was stale and old. Dan felt stale and old. In a hospital gown and nothing else he was vulnerable and cold and afraid; he thought: tomorrow is my birthday. His mom had booked tickets to a band that he couldn’t remember, and his stepdad wasn’t even invited, a rare miracle that had made him smile when his mom had told him – and then what? What had happened then? He nudged open the door.

Dan wasn’t an idiot – he’d seen enough horror movies in his time to know to keep his back to the musty yellow wall, but nothing leapt out of the empty hospital corridor to attack him; nothing moved. The only sound was his own breathing catching in his chest, not a very brave sound, and the loud tinkle of glass as a syringe rolled off his bedside table and onto the linoleum behind him. The air was musty out here, too, and the smell of soil was stronger. Everything glimmered with an odd fog, a mist that clung to the walls and made Dan dizzy. He waved his hand through it and watched it dissipate like steam; it was scentless and didn’t look like smoke, but he still kept a sharp eye out for fire as he picked a random direction and hobbled down the corridor, wincing as feeling found its way back to his toes. With each step he felt stronger: with each step he got more frightened. Had something happened? His bare feet left prints in the thick dust on the linoleum, but there was nothing else in the corridor, no discarded equipment or trolleys like you’d expect if the nurses had left in a rush – if, say, they were being chased by zombies, or huge monsters with wings and shark teeth that smelt like bonfires –

The memory (because it was a memory: his imagination wasn’t that good) sent Dan swooning. It was embarrassing, sinking to the ground in a weak puddle of fear, and – oh, God, they had broken his grandmother’s  _ dining _ table! His mom had shoved him in the car – Soph had been with them, her small face with Dan’s stepdad Ian’s eyes pale and terrified – his mom had torn out of the drive, foot hard on the accelerator; the house had gone up in flames behind them. Dan struggled to his feet, furious with himself, with the fuzziness in his brain that wouldn’t go away.

He put a hand to his forehead and found nothing but clammy sweat and smooth, unharmed skin, unruly curls. The car had spun once, twice, three times. Sophie’s face, her mouth open in a silent scream. Dan wanted to be sick.

He stumbled into the reception area. It was empty – not deserted, but empty, as though it had never been staffed in the first place. There wasn’t a single sheet of paper on the desks – the phones lay in their cradles as though they had never rung. Dan clung to the curved edge of the counter and stared at a poster that was peeling off the wall – CHLAMYDIA! it declared, hysterically, THE NEXT FRONTEIR OF AMERICAN DISEASE – and concentrated very hard on not vomiting. Maybe this was all a hallucination and he was lying in a ditch somewhere, the car upturned; any second now he would hear sirens.

Instead, a voice echoed down the corridor.

It was kind, female; it reminded Dan of the librarian at his high school, who didn’t mind him curling up behind her desk in the alcove with all the old books during lunch hour: it said, “Daniel Howell, born 1980, Miami, Florida. Is that you?”

Dan turned. Spots danced in front of his eyes; the mist had gotten thicker and it almost concealed the woman who stood in the corridor, but it couldn’t hide the fact that she hovered three inches above the ground, nor the way her pale dress moved through the still stale air like tentacles. Dan lurched backwards in panic as she drifted towards him, puffs of dust settling in her wake. Incongruously, she carried a white clipboard. She tapped a biro on her straight white teeth. “That is you, is it not?”

“Yes,” Dan croaked. “What are you?”

It sounded a little rude, in hindsight. He should have gone with  _ who _ . But she just smiled cheerfully. “Never mind that, my dear. Now, let’s see.” She made a small mark on her clipboard. “Five foot eleven but still growing, Caucasian, brown hair, brown eyes, half-blood. Hm, yes, so I see. Do you know your blood type?”

“O-Negative,” Dan blurted out, despite himself. And then: “half-blood?”

“Yes, dear.” The woman’s pretty face creased with something close to fear. “Your head must ache terribly. It’s the Mist, you know, you’re doing very well, all things considered.” She extended a hand to him.

Her skin, Dan saw, now that she was close, was a blue paler than a dawn sky, and almost translucent; her fingers were shimmering at the edges. “Come on,” she hissed, her calm façade flickering, fear breaking through into her voice, “we don’t have much time to get you to camp. The girls are keeping watch, but it’s only a matter of minutes before…”

She trailed off, looking hurriedly over her shoulder. In a few sweeps of her gown she was right in front of him, nose to nose. “I’m dreaming,” he said, staring into her pale eyes.

“Daniel –!” she began, admonishingly, and she sounded very much like Dan’s mom when he refused to come out of his room for dinner – and then she was cut off in a great shriek. A huge hand grasped her around the neck and yanked her backwards; she scrabbled desperately at it with her nails, choking, still floating above the floor, and Dan yelled and scrambled backwards, landing hard on his butt. Her eyes rolled up in her head; her skin had turned the colour of an early plum. An arm emerged from the wall behind her, just as huge as the hand it was attached to, scarred and grubby, and with a last desperate choke the woman exploded in a great gust of wind that sent dust across the room in a great cloud. Her clipboard hit the ground with a clatter.

The huge shadow was obscured by dust. It stood at least eight feet tall; it smelled like rotten meat. Its bottom half was still stuck in the wall. “Half-blood,” it snarled, “half-blood flesh for tea.”

Dan didn’t wait for it to get free from the plaster. He ran for the doors.

  
  


The roar of sound that engulfed him as he emerged into the noon sunlight was so familiar that it didn’t translate into traffic for a long moment, which he wasted by standing in the middle of the street, gaping. He had rushed through sliding doors that no longer existed; he was standing in front of an old laundromat, long-since shut. All around him skyscrapers towered, people shouted, taxi-drivers leant on their horns and swore; the air was thick with the smell of fast food and gasoline. Dan had never been to New York, but he recognised it quickly enough. The giant was nowhere to be seen.

It was like one of those dreams where the scene changes were rapid and impossible to follow. He felt trapped; he took one step towards an unfriendly looking man standing behind a hot dog stand in the vague hope of fetching help, and then he was driven off his feet as someone barrelled into his stomach and shoved him into a great pile of trash bags. “MOVE!” the someone yelled.

There was an explosion of broken glass. The hot-dog man screamed in fright and took off into the road, where two yellow taxis narrowly avoided turning him into sausage meet. A shadow blocked out the sun. “HALF-BLOOD,” it roared. “HALF-BLOOD MEAT.”

Dan rolled off the trash bags just in time to avoid a very large knife that came down where his head had been, glinting in the sunshine; the blade was the size of his leg. The giant roared with frustration.

“ANNABETH!”

Dan had been football tackled by a girl, about a head shorter than him, with blonde hair cropped to her chin and a fierce expression. Her voice cracked a little with fear. Dan said, desperately: “Hey! What –?”

“ _ Got it! _ ” another voice interrupted, and to Dan’s mingled shock and awe a sword materialised out of thin air, very close to Dan’s ear, and swished through the air, meeting the giant’s knife with a loud  _ CLANG! _

“NO!” the giant screamed. “Invisible! Not fair – not the rules!”

The street was nearly deserted. The New Yorkers that had stuck around didn’t seem particularly afraid of the towering figure, which was snarling as it tried to break through the defences of the glowing, floating sword – though they  _ were _ giving them a wide berth. At every turn the sword was there to meet him, so fast it was a bronze blur. Dan pressed his back to the wall and held his breath; this close he could see the giant’s face, his crimson eyes and squashed potato nose, and worst of all his teeth, brown with decay. He almost preferred the shark teeth of the winged women that had crashed his mom’s car.

Even Dan could tell the floating sword had the advantage. With every stroke the giant backed up; it caught him across the chest and blood splattered out, golden and thick. And then the sword disappeared, buried deep into the giant’s chest.

“Oh, my God,” Dan said.

A girl became visible as a Yankee cap slid off her long blonde hair and fell to the floor. She twisted the sword. The giant choked, and shattered into golden dust.

She seemed remarkably calm for a murderer. She grimaced and shook out her sword hand. “Gross,” she said.

“Um,” said Dan.

The girl, Annabeth, wasn’t paying attention. She was a couple of years older than him, and bloody ripped; Dan was pretty sure she could bench press him twice over. He repeated, a little louder: “UM!”

“Where’s Orea?” asked the shorter girl, who was balanced on her toes like she was ready to run.

“Who?”

She made a noise of impatience. “The girl who was in the laundromat with you.”

“It was a hospital,” Dan said weakly.

“That’s just the Mist.”

“The woman,” Dan said, “Orea. She – that thing –”

The girl turned away. Annabeth put two fingers in her mouth and let out an earsplitting whistle that echoed around the empty street. “What’s your name?” asked the shorter girl. “How old are you?”

“Dan,” Dan said, “I’m fifteen,” and then he said, “I think today is my sixteenth birthday.”

“Oh, great,” said Annabeth, and that was when the winged horse landed on Dan’s foot.

  
  


Somewhere between New York and Long Island Dan passed out.

Honestly, he was proud of himself for lasting for as long as he had. His brain felt like it was going to explode, and he was freezing in a paper-thin hospital gown and he had just seen a girl appear out of thin air, holding a sword. He didn’t know where his mom was – nor his sister, who was only three – and he was pretty certain he’d seen some sort of wind spirit throttled to death, so it wasn’t on his list of best days. He vaguely registered being lifted off the horse by some guy with a rainbow tattoo, and the smell of strawberries seeped into his dreams.

He woke up in another room that looked like a hospital. He wasn’t liking this trend, and this time he was halfway to his feet before a large hand was on his chest, shoving him back into his pillows. “Hey, woah, it’s alright, you’re safe here.”

There was sunlight streaming through a large window with white shutters, old South style. It could have been Florida except that Dan couldn’t smell any oranges. There was a large blond guy sitting by his bed, hand outstretched. Dan closed his eyes with a groan. “Alright?” asked the guy, not unkindly.

“What,” Dan said, more calmly than he felt, “the fuck is going on?”

“What’s your name?” the guy asked. “How’s your head?”

“Dan Howell,” Dan said, squinting at him and pressing cautiously at his aching temples, “and it’s there, that’s for sure. Is this a kidnapping? My family don’t have much money.”

The guy’s face twitched a little, as if in sympathy. For a kidnapper he looked pretty young, sixteen or seventeen, and he was built like a pro wrestler. He had the sort of waist to shoulders ratio that made girls swoon. Dan wondered if this was some sort of cult for young Olympic athletes. If that was the case, he was in the wrong place – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d exercised voluntarily. The boy’s eyes were a stormy blue. “I’m Jason,” he said. “Welcome to Camp Half-Blood.” He smiled, lopsided and endearing. “We thought you might want a shower? We’ve provided a couple of sizes of jeans and t-shirts in the bathroom, if you want to choose some. And then you can tell us where in the Underworld you’ve come from, because you’re scaring the shit out of everyone.”

Dan blinked at him. He said, “I was hoping you could tell me.”

Jason groaned. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  
  


Dan stood under the shower until he felt a little bit more human. At least this Camp was civilised enough to have proper water pressure, even if it did taste strange – non-chlorinated, he realised, after a while. He pulled on a pair of comfortable blue jeans and a bright orange t-shirt that was identical to Jason’s, and brushed his teeth, and stared at himself in the mirror. A familiar face looked back; thin and angular, with dusky blue circles under the eyes. His long hair was curling a little in the steam from the shower; he found an elastic band and tied it out of his face, determined to find a pair of scissors and some hair straighteners as soon as he could. Just as he was about to open the bathroom door, he heard voices.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Jason. He was muffed, like he had his back to the bathroom; Dan pressed his ear to the door. “Even the gods get forgetful sometimes.”

“Not about oaths, and Percy made them swear.”

“I know.” Jason sounded tired. “And so did I. But Annabeth –”

“I don’t want to think about it either,” Annabeth, the girl with the sword, interrupted. “It’s only been months since the war. I know. But we can’t ignore something like this. Maybe they want to tell us something. Maybe something’s coming. If only we had the Oracle –”

“Something’s always coming,” Jason said, dryly. “Can’t we have a year?”

“Now you really do sound like Percy.” There was a sharp rap at the bathroom door; Dan jumped backwards. “Are you done, Dan?”

He opened the door, a little shame-faced. “Done,” he said. He pulled down the orange t-shirt, which matched Annabeth’s exactly, though she had paired hers with denim shorts and a knife strapped to the inside of her arm. Jason was still sitting in the chair by the bed, fiddling with a red-cased object with an odd hinge, like a horizontal door. Dan had never trusted boys who looked like him – handsome, large, sure of themselves. Jason looked exactly like the kind of guy who used to beat Dan up after gym class. He turned his attention back to Annabeth, eyes wary on her knife.

“I’m Annabeth,” she introduced herself, shaking her hand firmly. “Head of Athena cabin. I’m sorry we had to meet so hurriedly earlier.”

“I’m sorry I fainted,” Dan mumbled.

“That’s alright,” Jason said cheerfully. “I threw up the first time I rode a pegasus. Projectile over the Golden Gate Bridge.”

Annabeth snorted. “Anyway,” she continued, “you didn’t faint that much. You held up pretty well, considering the thickness of the Mist.”

“Yeah,” Dan said. “About that.” He took a sharp breath. “What the fuck is going on?”

Annabeth grinned. “I’d love to be the one to have to explain all of this to you,” she said, clapping Jason on the back sympathetically, “but unfortunately I have a military strategy class to teach in ten minutes, so I can’t. Grace?”

“Oh, gods,” Jason muttered. “Fine. But I’m terrible at it. I never had to have the talk.”

“Never?” Dan asked. Jason grinned.

“I was raised by wolves,” he said. Something about his tone made Dan think that he wasn’t being metaphorical.

“What’s that?” Dan asked, curiosity getting the better of him. He gestured at the small red case. “Does it, like, become a sword or something?”

Jason looked down at the slim red rectangle, looking genuinely confused. “This?” he asked, holding it up. “It’s just a DS.” At Dan’s blank expression he expanded. “For games? Mario Kart and stuff?”

“Oh,” Dan said. He had played plenty of Mario himself in his time, but he was used to the SNES, and this thing didn’t even have a controller. “Is it new? I’ve never seen anything that small.”

Jason’s frown deepened. “It’s pretty out of date, actually. It’s only a DS Lite, it’s from 2012 or something like that. It’s difficult to get technology to work well in here, all the auras and spirits fuck with it – Dan? Are you ok?” Dan had turned pasty white. “Sit down.”

Dan sat on the bed, heavily. Jason’s voice was sharp and authoritative; he felt like he was going into battle. He put his head between his knees until the floor stopped shifting, and when he could speak, he said, voice muffled, “did you say 2012?”

Jason crouched so their eyes were level. His were a serious, dark blue like the sky. Dan blushed a bit, despite himself, despite the situation – he was pretty attractive. “What year were you born?” he asked.

“1980,” Dan said, automatically. He swallowed. “Is it 2012?”

Jason swore. “It’s 2017,” he said, slowly. “How long were you in that laundromat?”

  
  


Once Dan had stopped hyperventilating, Annabeth cancelled her military strategy class (which seemed to affect her more than the news that Dan was 37; she kept muttering about scheduling) and together she and Jason frogmarched Dan down the large sweeping staircase of the house – which was four-storied, clapboard fronted, porched – and into a large recreation room, which had a pool-table in the middle and seats positioned all around it like a war council. On the wall was the head of a leopard, which winked at Dan as he passed. At this point he was so unshockable that he just accepted it. At the end of the pool table sat an overweight white guy in a loud, purple and green Hawaiian shirt, playing solitaire against himself. He had three cans of Diet Coke in front of him, all of them open and in varying stages of emptiness.

“Mr D,” Annabeth said, loudly.

The man looked up. He had a bulbous, red nose that spoke of long nights at the bar, a thick, large mouth, and thinning black hair. He reminded Dan of his old gym teacher. Dan was, therefore, not immediately endeared. It appeared that the feeling was likewise, because the man took one look at Dan and then returned to his cards. “Who is this?” he drawled.

“This is Dan,” Jason said, not sounding put off. He had his large hands in his pockets. “He’s 37.”

“Do you have to put it like that?” Dan muttered.

“And?” the man said, ignoring him.

Annabeth rolled her eyes in Jason’s direction. “He says he’s 16, Mr D. He’s been trapped somewhere since, what -”

“1996,” Dan supplied, helpfully. It was weird, but knowing that this was twenty years in the future was actually  _ helping _ \- or maybe it was the shower. But everything felt more solid and real. In fact, he’d go so far as to say he was comfortable here, as if this place was welcoming him in. It was better than the new house in Florida, anyway, the one Ian had bought his mom.

“Sure, 1996,” said Annabeth gamely. “Mr D, he hasn’t been claimed.”

This made the guy, Mr D, look up. His eyes were bloodshot and exhausted, and with a deep sigh that again reminded Dan of every horrible teacher he’d ever had he beckoned Dan over to him. Dan shot Annabeth a nervous glance, and she shrugged. He went over.

Mr D looked him over and grunted. “You are 37,” he said.

Dan sighed. “I’m 16,” he said.

“That too,” said Mr D. “Who is your parent?” His hands resumed their work, though he wasn’t looking; even so the cards flickered down one by one, impossibly smooth.

“Oh, uh,” Dan said, “uh, Isabel Howell, she’s my mom, and my stepdad is -”

“No, not them,” Mr D said, waving a pudgy hand. “Your immortal parent. Your father, it seems.”

Dan’s brain snagged on the word immortal and refused to get free. He stammered: “I - I don’t -”

Mr D interrupted him, sounding incredibly frustrated. “I don’t have time for this, Annabel,” he said, presumably to Annabeth, who had stepped forward and squeezed Dan’s shoulder; he appreciated the gesture, it made him feel a little bit less like passing out again. “I don’t know why we don’t get rid of all you brats at birth. Like kittens. Throw you in the Tiber like they used to do.” He looked a little dreamy. “Those were the days.”

“But sir -” Annabeth attempted.

“Don’t ‘but’ me,” Mr D said, wagging a finger. “I don’t want another unclaimed 16 year old running around the place. Sort this out. I can’t have the trouble.”

“Mr D,” Jason attempted, “we really don’t know -”

But Dan was sick of this: of all of it. He was flushed with fear and anger, and his voice went up half an octave when he said, “if someone doesn’t tell me what’s happening  _ right now  _ -!”

Mr D stood up. Dan cut himself off and took a step backwards; his eyes were impossibly fluorescent with purple fire. He leant in and Dan smelt stale alcohol and something else; crushed grapes, and the smoke of a whole city burning. “Listen,” he half-snarled, dark, and Dan broke out into a cold sweat. “I have 25 years left in this gods-forsaken place, and I won’t have  _ another _ arrogant, inconvenient child mess that up for me. Understand?”

_ No _ , Dan thought. “Yes,” he squeaked, and hated himself.

“Good,” said Mr D. The fire died; once more he was just an old drunk. He sat down in front of his cards and began to deal himself another hand. “Now get out.”

They went.

Outside, Dan threw up into the grass by the porch. Annabeth rubbed a hand over his back; Jason watched, sympathetically. “We just caught him at a bad time,” he said.

“Bad time!” Dan cried, somewhat hysterically, wiping his mouth and straightening. “Bad - bad  _ time! _ Did you  _ see _ that? Please, please tell me I’m not going insane and you saw that.”

Annabeth nodded. “We saw. Mr D can be temperamental, but that was something else.” She looked nervous still, and Dan felt better. Annabeth had faced down a bloodthirsty giant, and she was still frightened by Mr D. “If only Chiron was here - but he’s out in San Fran.” She shook her head, colour coming back into her cheeks. “Gods, I’m too tired for this. Dan, if you only knew -” But she stopped, and didn’t tell him what he should know; instead, she ran a hand over her face, and turned back to Jason. “You’re still doing the talk.”

“Okay,” Jason said. Behind him, there was what seemed to be a volleyball court, and behind that was a huge pine tree set against the horizon at the top of a large, sloping hill; it was bigger than any Dan had seen, its branches spread wide, like a protective mother. In its branches, something glimmered gold. He blinked and looked away. “You might want to sit down for this one.”

  
  


At some point, Dan had to hold his hand up and make Jason stop. The blond boy did, wincing. “Am I doing this wrong?” he asked, looking to Annabeth helplessly. “Do you not believe me? I sound believable, right?” For the first time Dan noticed a tattoo on the inside of his forearm: it said  **SPQR** in thick black letters. There was more to it, but Dan was understandably distracted.

“I feel like you’re assuming I know a lot more about Greek than I do,” he said. And then, taking pity on Jason’s distressed face, he added, “and I do believe you.” And the crazy thing was, he did. It explained a lot. It explained the money.

Quieter, he said, thinking of the dollar bills he stashed under his mattress at the house, so recently and yet so long ago set aflame: “is my mom dead?”

Annabeth looked soft. “I don’t know,” she said. “But it happened in 1996, didn’t it? We can find out for you. She might be fine.”

“But she’d think I was missing - dead, even?”

“I guess so.”

Dan swallowed very heavily. Then he said, rapidly switching topics, “so the Greeks had lots of gods, I know that much. Poseidon. Trident. Uh…” he winced. “I’m pulling a lot of this from Disney movies...Hades has flames for hair?”

Annabeth outright laughed this time. “Not that I’ve ever noticed,” she said, pleased to have moved on from the topic of Dan’s mom. “But Poseidon does have a Trident. He’s god of the sea.”

“Zeus is god of the sky,” said Jason. “And thunder, and...uh, leadership?” He glanced at the sky apologetically, which made Dan feel slightly unbalanced. “He’s the King of the Gods. Hades is God of the Underworld. They’re brothers.”

“Let’s not get into the family tree,” said Annabeth.

“Right,” Jason agreed hurriedly. “So then there’s Hera, Zeus’s wife. She doesn’t have kids, because she’s the goddess of marriage.” Annabeth muttered something Dan didn’t catch, but it didn’t sound complimentary. “Then there’s -” his eyes flicked to the side; he seemed to be following a mental map of some kind. “Uh, Ares, God of War - don’t cross him, or his kids - oh, and Demeter, Goddess of the Harvest. Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, War, Crafts, and Inventions.”

“She’s my mom,” Annabeth interjected cheerfully.

“Sounds relaxing,” Dan said weakly.

“Oh, it isn’t.”

“Apollo, God of the Sun, Music, Prophecies, Archery, Medicine…”

“He gets around.”

Annabeth looked a little dreamy. “Uh huh.”

“Ugh,” said Jason. “ _ Anyway _ . Then there’s Hermes, Messenger of the Gods. Oh, and God of Thieves and Trickery. You’ll probably sleep in his cabin tonight, with his kids. They’re nice people. Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt - she’s the maiden goddess, so she doesn’t have children, but her hunters stay here from time to time. Hephaestus, God of Blacksmiths and Fire.” He was counting off on his fingers now, a crease between his eyebrows. For the second time that day, Dan thought about how cute he was. “Aphrodite, Goddess of Love and Beauty. Dionysus, God of Wine and Madness.” He winced, then, and said, “uh, that’s Mr D.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“Yeah, I mean -”

“He’s a  _ God? _ ” Dan wasn’t sure why he was so shocked - he remembered the real, animal fear he had felt in Mr D’s presence and it made sense - but he couldn’t help it. Annabeth looked amused.

“He sure is. He can make a man into a mean dolphin.”

Dan just looked at her. She grinned. Not joking, then. Jason continued, like a man reaching the end of a marathon: “Hades, God of the Dead - I already said him - and then a load of other minor Gods, Nike, and Nemesis-and-that’s-it-that’s-all-I’m-doing-did-I-do-good-Annabeth.”

She clapped him on the shoulder. “Sure, sport, you did great.” He rolled his eyes at her. “You doing alright, Dan?”

They’d lost him somewhere around Athena, but he shrugged and said, “I guess.”

“You’ll get into it. I wouldn’t worry.

“So,” Dan said, and hesitated. They were sitting on the porch steps; the whole world seemed spread out in front of them. It was a camp of some sort, he’d been right there; he could see a whole field of cabins on his right, spread out in a large upside-down horseshoe with tails - an omega, his brain supplied, and he frowned. How had he known that? To his left was the source of the smell that hung around them; strawberry fields, although several of them were in the stage of replanting. There was damage all around the camp like that; the arena, which reminded Dan of a the coliseum only much, much smaller, was covered in scaffolding and the grass was scorched in large patches, like someone had got very busy with a flamethrower. He continued, slowly, “who’s my dad?”

It was a question that fell off his tongue pretty easily: he’d asked it before, after all.

“We don’t know,” Jason shrugged, nudging into his shoulder companionably. “That’s what unclaimed means. The Gods swore an oath, two years ago, to never let a kid go unclaimed past the age of twelve - that’s why we were so surprised to find  _ you. _ ”

“Also because you’re forty,” said Annabeth.

“Oh, it’s  _ forty _ now?” Dan cried, and they all laughed.

It helped, a little. Not a lot, but a bit.

  
  


In the end, they had to pass him on. From the way people acted as the three of them walked down from the house and into the camp proper, Jason and Annabeth were important people; it wasn’t like they were  _ popular _ , not in a high school sense, but the other campers, all in orange just like Dan, treated them with real respect. Annabeth introduced him to a girl she cheerfully named “Tall-Hazel,” because, presumably, there was a small Hazel, who had a broad smile and a strong Irish accent that  _ seriously _ threw Dan for a loop. “Oh, I moved here,” she said, after she saw his face, “there aren’t many resources for half bloods in Ireland, it might surprise you to know.”

“It - it doesn’t,” Dan said. “I think I’m unsurprisable, now.”

Tall-Hazel laughed. “Oh, shite, did they spring it on you?” she said. “It’s okay, Chase, I’ll take him from here.”

“Hazel’s my sister,” Annabeth said. “She’ll show you round. I’ve got to get to training. I’ll see you around, Dan.”

“See ya,” Jason said, with a wave. Dan watched them go, feeling a little bit lost, before Tall-Hazel nudged him back to the present.

“It’s alright,” she said. “You’ll be happy here. We all are. It’s safe.”

Dan swallowed a lump in his throat. He wondered how many times he’d have to hear someone tell him that before it felt true.

Tall-Hazel showed him the arena, which was even more badly damaged than it had looked from afar, rubble piled up in the centre, and from there they went past the forge - which belched thick black smoke - and the armoury (yep, Dan felt the same way) and from there to the cabins. There must have been at least thirty, thirty five, all spread out in the one field; it didn’t seem like they should all fit, and yet they did. They were all decorated differently, shaped differently - they even smelt different, and the whole place was teeming with yet more kids in orange shirts - most of them were younger than Dan. “Where are the older kids?” Dan asked. “Is there a college for half bloods?”

Tall-Hazel laughed. “There is,” she said, “in New Rome. No one’s told you about New Rome, yet?” Dan shook his head, the whole expression on his face screaming for help, and she beamed at him. “Short version, then, before dinner: this is the Greek camp, there’s a Roman camp too, and New Rome is the city there.”

“I think I can handle that,” said Dan. “So they’re at college.”

Something flickered across Tall-Hazel’s face. “Some of them. The thing is,” and again she hesitated, “I don’t know, Dan. A lot of half bloods don’t make it to eighteen; it’s dangerous. And we’ve had a fair few - well, quite a few scrapes over the last couple of years. And the older kids were on the front lines.”

Dan was silent. They were in the middle of the top part of the omega now - in front of him shone two cabins that could only belong to the King and Queen of the Gods, Zeus and Hera. Next to him, a cabin that smelt deliciously of baking bread had its doors open and two girls were sitting on the porch, shoving each other around, flirting, giggling; opposite them, a shining golden cabin was playing loud music that sent bass spiralling across the scorched grass. It was a camp for  _ teenagers _ . “Sorry,” said Hazel, “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“It’s okay,” Dan said. “I’m hoping that I’m going to go to bed and wake up in my old room. Even my stepdad would be better than this.”

Hazel looked sympathetic. “Been there, mate,” she said. “But it’ll be okay.”

Dan still wasn’t convinced yet.

As they walked, Hazel pointed more things out - people, cabins, plants, satyrs (they had  _ hooves _ , it was the weirdest thing), and as Dan began to calm down he spotted a few oddities - purple shirts in the sea of orange that must have belonged to Roman campers; three girls who dived into the water of the canoeing lake and never resurfaced; another girl who just full on became a tree. And all the time, the pulse at the back of Dan’s head told him that, despite the swords everyone was carrying, despite the cabin of solid gold and the ‘scrapes’ that seemed to have killed half a generation, despite his mind swimming with new facts and the knowledge that his mom was dead, he belonged.

As they made their way from the cabins towards a climbing wall that Dan could only describe as Definitely Not Safe For Children, Hazel suddenly flagged down a passing camper like she was hailing a bus; the camper stopped and spun on his heel, light on his feet. “This is Dan,” she said, a phrase Dan was now starting to hate: “he’s new.” She waved a hand vaguely. “Dan, this is Phil.”

Phil was several years older than Dan. He had his hair swept into a fringe somewhat like what Dan would have on a good day, blue eyes, a curious tilt to his head as he looked Dan over. He was in an orange t-shirt, the same as Hazel, and black jeans, and there was a smudge of some sort of machine oil on his forehead. “Hi,” he said, and then his eyes narrowed a little. “New? How old are you? Please tell me you’re an old looking twelve.”

“Actually, I’m a young looking 37,” Dan said, then regretted it. “Sixteen,” he clarified, a little on edge.

“Sixteen?” Phil’s eyes flicked over Dan in a way that made him shuffle his feet, like his age was something he’d got wrong too. There was a twist of concern to his mouth that was unsettling; Dan couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked that worried about him. “That’s way too old. Why hasn’t he been claimed?”

“No idea,” Hazel shrugged. She didn’t seem too worried.

“Hazel -”

“Phil, it’s fine.” She smiled at Dan kindly. “Some people probably just slip through the cracks.”

“Oh, great,” Dan said sarcastically. “That’s what I like to be known for.”

Phil laughed. It was startlingly attractive. He clapped Dan on the shoulder. He had large hands, Dan noticed, abruptly hyper-aware, blunt-cut nails, grubby around the knuckles. “See you around, sixteen,” he said. There was a grey cloth sticking out of his back pocket; Dan noticed it when he turned to leave.

Tall-Hazel said, “Phil’s a good guy. He’s temporary head of Hephaestus cabin.”

“God of fire,” Dan remembered. All this new information was really getting to him now, not to mention the smell of strawberries; he felt light-headed.

“And blacksmiths. Inventions. Machines. All that good stuff.” Hazel grinned at him and gestured to the death wall. “Shall we?”

 

Dinner was open air, the smell of perfect barbecue floating towards Dan and Hazel as they finished their tour of the camp, a little late. It wasn’t dark yet; it was summer, and the sun was still relatively high in the sky as they rounded the columns and Dan found himself facing the entire camp at once. Thankfully, no one took much notice of him as Hazel stepped over a large crack in the marble floor and led him through. The crack made Dan nervous; there was something about it that lingered in his mind as he followed his new friend - he’d definitely been adopted - through the chattering campers that filled the long tables set out across the courtyard. There was a large altar in the middle, and as Dan watched campers scraped small amounts of their food into the brazier there; it smelt amazing, not like burning food at all. He watched the smoke spiral into the sky for a long moment, wondering if it was all true - if there really was something up there, watching them all. Mr D had seemed real enough; and there he was, sitting at the high table, staring glumly at his Diet Coke and not looking godlike at all.

“Sit with us,” Hazel said, kindly, snapping Dan out of it. He smiled at her gratefully and took a seat at a particularly crowded table near the end of the courtyard; as soon as he sat down, some of the girls he’d seen earlier, disappearing into the trees, brought up platters of barbecue, salad, fruit. They reminded him of Orea, which gave him a startled pang of guilt - he hadn’t even asked who she was. Dan followed Hazel up to the altar and scraped a bit of his meat into the fire; he watched it sizzle and turn black and felt sick.

“You look a bit out of it,” said the guy sitting next to Hazel, when they returned. He had the kind of face that was always mischief filled; Dan thought he’d find a way to laugh at his own funeral.

“This is Jack,” said Hazel, “head of Hermes cabin.”

“I guess you’ll be staying with us,” Jack said. “We collect all the waifs and strays. Though we haven’t had any in a while.” He frowned. People seemed to be doing that a lot around Dan. He gestured to Dan’s empty goblet. “You have to ask.”

“Ask,” Dan repeated, flatly.

“For what drink you want.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Seriously.”

He eyed the goblet hesitantly. “Coke,” he said.

The goblet filled. He wasn’t even that surprised. It was real, then, his brain said, monotone. There you have it. Magic, right in front of you.

God -  _ Gods  _ \- he was tired. The Coke helped, but not much; he was reaching the end of his strength, and Hazel and Jack could clearly tell, because they let him be, keeping their voices down and scary topics of conversation to a minimum. When everyone had finished eating, Mr D stood up, tapping a fork against his Diet Coke can. The loud chattering quieted down to a gentle hum. “We have a new camper,” he said, sounding intensely bored - nothing at all like the fierce fury that Dan had experienced that afternoon. “Daniel Hunter.” He pointed. “There we go. He’s unclaimed, so maybe he’ll be eaten soon. One can only hope.”

Then he sat. Dan said, “uh, it’s Howell,” and a couple of people waved. One of the tables, mainly populated by kids in red - large kids, arm-wrestling types - wolf-whistled and cheered.

“Ares cabin,” said Hazel. She glared at them. “Assholes.”

“They’re alright,” said Jack. “Clarisse wasn’t too bad, before she went to college. Rick’s alright.” Hazel wrinkled her nose. She looked fierce; Dan could see the resemblance to Annabeth, suddenly. She made a sceptical noise and Jack laughed. “Alright, they’re all scum, are you happy now?”

“Not really,” she said.

 

Dan bedded down in the corner of Hermes cabin, on a bedroll that smelt sort of musty - but everyone was kind, at least, and the atmosphere was warm, with everyone cracking jokes, shoving each other around, messing about. Dan slept like the fucking dead. When he woke up, everyone else was still snoring, the girls down one side, the boys down another, and Dan, at the top in the middle underneath one of the shuttered windows, on the floor. He lay there for a little while, listening to the breathing and mutterings of twenty people. He tried to feel like this was his home. Maybe he was a son of Hermes. But he couldn’t tell. It certainly didn’t feel any different in here than it had in the mess courtyard the night before.

He knew that if he lay there much longer he’d think about his mom, and then he’d cry. And that, he decided, just wasn’t acceptable. Anyway, he’d found a bundle of twenties under his pillow, which was a sure sign he needed to move.

So he got up and dressed, quietly, in his borrowed clothes, and went to the bathroom block; he was pleased to see that he wasn’t the only one awake at dawn. There were several people at the archery range - one or two were hitting the bullseye with every shot. Taking it upon himself to explore, he wandered down, careful to stay well out of the way of the targets. He didn’t want to end this adventure through, well, misadventure. He recognised one of the boys from Hazel’s table, and returned his wave somewhat shyly. The boy bounced over; he was Dan’s age, with a sprinkling of freckles over his nose and sun-bleached hair. “Hi!” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Will.”

Dan was already in the habit of wondering, ‘are you my sibling,’ when looking at any new person; it was something he needed to break. Even so, he thought it might be nice to have someone as sunny as Will for a brother. “Dan,” he said, quietly. He shaded his eyes from the sun, peering down the course and down past it, in the direction of the arena. “I’m new.”

“Trust me,” Will said, with a grin. “We’ve heard. News travels fast. You’re good gossip.”

“Oh, great,” said Dan.

“Don’t worry about it.” Will slung his bow over his back. He hadn’t been one of the ones hitting the targets, but Dan asked all the same.

“Are you a son of Apollo, then?”

Will smiled. “How did you guess? My fantastic  _ skillz _ ?”

Dan laughed. Actually, he thought, it was the fact that you look like a walking sunshine. He didn’t say that, though. “You were alright,” he said generously.

Will scoffed. “I was terrible and you know it. It’s not something I inherited, unfortunately.” He eyed Dan in a way that was already incredibly familiar. “You’re -”

“Unclaimed. Yeah.”

His new friend shrugged. “It happens. The Gods are forgetful.”

“Nice guys.”

Again, Will shrugged. “They’re passable,” he said. “My dad’s alright, though we haven’t seen him from a while. My boyfriend’s father on the other hand - he’s a real piece of work.”

_ Boyfriend _ , Dan thought. Just his luck - he meets a good-looking boy and he’s already bloody  _ taken _ , what are the chances. “Who is he?” Dan asked, to be polite, though he couldn’t care less.

“Hades,” Will said, “God of the Dead.”

The idea was so funny that it cured Dan’s jealousy - he burst out laughing. Will was grinning; he knew exactly why Dan was cracking up, but he still said, protesting, “what!”

“You?” Dan said. “Don’t you, like - melt him with your rays of light?”

“Something like that,” Will said cheerfully. “Coming to breakfast?”

So Dan went. And today was already better than yesterday.

 

At breakfast Annabeth found him at the Apollo table; she looked rushed off her feet and it was only eight in the morning. “We’re starting you off slow,” she said, waggling her fingers at someone over Dan’s head. He was definitely on her to-do list; this wasn’t a social call. “I’m gonna have Phil - have you met him? Head of Hephaestus cabin, he’s lovely - anyway, he’ll take you through some drills this morning. I want you with a sword in your hand as soon as possible. You’re making me nervous.”

“Sword?” Dan repeated, pretty nervous himself. He had visions of himself falling over and poking out his own eye. “Oh, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea -”

“Don’t be stupid,” Annabeth said briskly. “Anyone can learn how to defend themselves with a few weeks motivated hard work. See you at lunch.”

“Motivated. Hard. Work,” Dan repeated, very skeptically, at her retreating back. He looked at Will. “I’ve never been motivated in my life. I’m not even motivated to do  _ easy _ work, let alone hard work. Is this exercise? Will, I don’t want to do exercise. I’d rather just let the monsters eat me. Then at least Mr D might like me.”

Will had a mouthful of scrambled eggs. He swallowed manfully. “Can’t help you, dude,” he said, thickly, “but I will say - she’s right. Anyone can become passable. You’re no Percy Jackson, but you can learn enough to live.” He looked Dan up and down. “Probably.”

“Christ,” Dan said. “Oh, God. I did  _ not _ sign up for deadly gym class.”

 

The best thing about the camp so far was that everything was easy to find. You just followed the sounds of the particular death you’re looking for.

There was the sound of clanging metal echoing from the amphitheatre when Dan found it, allowing himself one last few breaths of freedom before he was forced to break a sweat for the first time - well, ever. The clanging ceases and he heard laughter, that typical jock banter - oh, Gods, he thought, offering up a prayer for the first time.  _ Please let my father be the god of ‘unexpectedly very in shape.’ _ The Gods didn’t answer. Dan still wasn’t entirely convinced that they existed, despite Mr D’s purple eyes, despite the magical Coke - despite the money.

Because here was the thing: Dan had been to three schools in five years. Everyone thought it was because he was a thief. He wasn’t a thief.

Money came to him.

He found his way down the steps into the cool area under the amphitheatre where, if his vague grasp on history was correct, the lions and Christians about to be eaten were kept. Not in Long Island, though, he reminded himself; instead the ones here were cluttered with stuff - hundreds of old swords, hoodies, trainers; the usual gym locker room mess, except with deadly weapons. As he approached the entrance to the ring, he heard faint voices and recognised Hazel’s lilting accent as though he’d known it all his life.

“It’ll be good for you,” he heard her say, her voice carrying; she sound insistent, but sympathetic. Phil - it must have been Phil - made a noise that wasn’t quite assent. “It’s not healthy for you to be on your own all the time.”

“I said I’ll do it, didn’t I?”

Dan cursed, quietly. Why was it that he always ended up being a burden - unwanted, as bloody usual. But when he rounded the corner Phil greeted him with a genuine smile. “A student!” he announced cheerfully. “Lucky you.”

“You’re unlucky,” Hazel said, in a stage whisper. Her arms were full of helmets as she headed back the way Dan had come. “He’s terrible.”

“Hey!”

Her footsteps echoed down the stairs. Phil was in his orange t-shirt again, his black jeans again, but over the top he had armour strapped to him; it was bizarre to see it over denim and cotton. He looked Dan over. “You’re a lot thinner than me,” he said, “but I grabbed a couple of sizes. We won’t need any of this for a while, anyway. Hazel and I were just sparring.” His hair was sweat-slicked back off his forehead; he wasn’t joking. He hefted up the huge sword that was propped up next to him and drove it into its strange, leather holster on his hip. He caught Dan eyeing it with obvious trepidation and laughed. “Don’t worry, we’re starting with sparring swords. They don’t have an edge. And you won’t be touching one of those for an hour or so. I’m guessing you’re not in great shape.”

Dan made sure to look mortally offended. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he said, in his best  _ let me speak to the manager _ voice. “I do  _ tons _ of sports.”

“Sure you do,” Phil grinned. Then he looked a bit more serious. “But it wouldn’t matter if you did - you still wouldn’t be in shape enough for real sparring. That’ll take a couple of months of -”

“Motivated hard work,” Dan said glumly.

“Annabeth got to you,” Phil said, with a twinge of pity.

“She sure did.”

“She’s not so bad, Annabeth.” Phil shrugged. “She’s just been through a lot. She’s lived at camp since she was seven, you know.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah.” Phil’s face was a little bit dark. “I arrived not long after her. She’s had -” he looked like he was casting around for words, before settling on, “a lot of bad luck,” and looking ashamed of his own understatement. He shook himself. “Right. Let’s get started.”

 

Phil wasn’t a bad teacher, just a kind one; he put Dan through drills that seemed actually doable until he stopped and realised that every single muscle he had - even ones he didn’t  _ know _ he had - was screaming. He groaned out loud and Phil laughed, stretching out his shoulders. He was right - they hadn’t touched the swords. Dan had lifted one experimentally and found he could barely lift it. “Take a break,” he said, “drink some water.”

“What have you  _ done _ to me,” Dan whined pathetically, obeying and limping over to the benches which were lined up by the exit. “This is  _ horrible _ .”

“This is starting slow,” Phil said, drinking himself. He sat next to him, long legs spread out in front of him, and they rested in companionable silence until Dan felt a little bit less like he was going to cut off his own limbs to stop the pain.

“When were you claimed?”

The words forced themselves out of him. He couldn’t help it. Phil grimaced, standing. He tossed the empty bottle into the corner and began to limber up again. “I was eleven,” he said. “But that was pretty young, back then. Nowadays everyone is claimed by thirteen...”

“Except me,” Dan interrupted. To hide the bitterness, he added, “I’m just too special.”

Phil grinned. “That’s for sure,” he said, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stood in the middle of the sand covered ring, turning the wicked diamond-shaped knife he had in his belt over and over in his hands. Eventually he said, “the thing is, whenever something like this happens - something out of the ordinary - something like you…” He trailed off, spread his hands wide. “It’s an omen. And last time.” He stopped midsentence.

Dan raised his eyebrows and stood, not without some effort. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said. “I’m not out of the ordinary. I’m - I’m the most ordinary anyone can get.”

Phil rolled his blue eyes. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Catch.”

Before Dan could even think, there was a blur of bronze by his right ear. He caught the blade by the hilt. Together, they stared at it, his long pale fingers wrapped around the dark brown grip of it, the light reflecting off the celestial bronze. Dan stammered, “I - I’ve never even caught a - a fucking  _ baseball! _ ” And then: “you could’ve killed me, you psycho!”

Phil was laughing. Just like before, it transformed him into something captivating, elfin. “Nah, I knew you’d catch it,” he said. “Half-bloods always do under pressure.” Dan offered it to him, but he shook his head. “Keep it.”

So he did.

 

After that, things got a little bit easier. Dan learnt to trust his instincts a little bit more, and when they started with the practice swords he even managed to parry a few of Phil’s kinder blows. When Phil finally called a halt again Dan was sunburnt and panting, but also feeling pretty great. “Phil! You’re brilliant,” he exclaimed, and it came out gushier than he intended. Phil didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m not bad,” he said, “but that’s more just because I have the reach. I’m not much of a front-lines guy. Put me in supplies and I’ll be happy.” He unhooked his helmet and shook out his hair, which stuck up in sweat-slicked spikes so dark they were almost blue; the helmet had left an indent in his forehead and Dan felt the insane urge to smooth it out with his thumb. “Some people - you should see them fight. This camp has seen some of the best sword fighters in a millenia. Jackson, to begin with -”

“Alright, boys?”

Phil broke off, smiling; when Dan turned he recognised the girl who had saved his life. She looked a lot less frightened, but just as small; she was wearing armour too, and had her cropped blonde hair pinned off her face. “Are you done?” she asked.

“Just about,” said Phil. “We need to cool down.”

“Great,” she said, and Dan realised she was scowling.  He waved at her tentatively and she managed a smile. “Hi, nice to see you up and about. I’m Lissa. Daughter of Eos.” He must have looked blank,  because she expanded: “Goddess of the Dawn.”

“Oh,” said Dan. He could see it. Her eyes were the same grey as the dawn sky. “I’m Dan. Son of nobody.”

At this she really did smile, before she turned to Phil. To Dan’s surprise, she hugged him. “How’re you holding up?”

“Oh,” he said, with a wary glance in Dan’s direction. “Not too bad. You know. Same same. Who’s kicked your hornet’s nest.”

Lissa snorted. “Fucking Ortiz can actually die. And I mean that. He can  _ die _ and I’d watch it happen and laugh.” Dan met Phil’s eyes over her head - she was only just pushing five foot, he reckoned - and saw laughter there; he had to turn away before he caught it. “I’m here to knock the shit out of some dummies so I don’t cause a civil war. I don’t wanna interrupt.”

“But you’re going to,” Phil said cheerfully. “That’s alright, we need a shower anyway.”

Dan grimaced. “That’s for sure,” he said, “you stink.”

“Hey!” Phil said, delightedly. “And right after you told me I was brilliant, as well.”

Dan flushed. “Shut up,” he said, furiously, but he found himself smiling all the same.

  
  



End file.
